Honey Trap
by Muddy Poodle
Summary: The art of seduction isn't exactly a class offered at Division, so it's up to Nikita to learn the tricks of the trade…from a rather unlikely source.  One-shot.


**I. HONEY TRAP **

"Yo! Nikki, the bag is dead—I think you can give it a rest."

Only at the familiar voice did Nikita step away from the punching bag and look to the doorway of the training room. "Nerd, hey," she breathed hard, swiping a padded boxing glove against the perspiration dripping from her forehead. "Thanks for coming."

Seymour Birkhoff snorted. "Thanks for sweating. What's with the ruthless boxing routine? Is there another _Rocky _sequel I don't know about?"

Nikita ignored him, returning instead to her brutal attack on the swinging punching bag.

"Dude, seriously? You need to get a sense of humor."

"Birkhoff, I don't laugh at your jokes _because _I have a sense of humor."

"_Touché,__" _her fellow recruit and friend acknowledged, stepping behind the bag and holding it in place for her. "No, really. What gives? The past two days, you've spent more time in the training room than half the recruits here."

"I've been activated," said Nikita grimly, simulating another quick set of jabs and uppercuts.

"Yeah, right," scoffed Birkhoff's muffled voice from behind the punching bag. "You're going on what, two months in this dive? As far as Percy and Michael are concerned, you're still a baby recruit. Now they've suddenly got you activated for a mission? No way Amanda would sign off on that."

"It's an early activation for a special assignment," she amended. "A one-time-only deal."

Birkhoff peeked his face out from behind the bag. "Hey, I think I heard about that mission. With the Hungarian nationalist, right? The weapons designer with the targeting software?"

"Division wants the targeting system, but this guy's secluded on an oil platform in the South China Sea until he finishes his software program. The Chinese government suspended all shore leave from the men working on the platform; no one gets on or off. The sole exception is that every other week, he's allowed female companionship." Nikita paused to catch her breath. "I'm his female companion."

"That doesn't sound so bad. You'd look good in a little black dress—hey!" Birkhoff yelped in protest, flinching as Nikita aimed a roundhouse kick that hit the bag mere inches from his face.

"This is a mistake. What am I going to say to him? What am I supposed to do? I've never done anything like this before. The wig and the dress and the accent and—"

"All right, take it easy there, Sydney Bristow," he interjected. "You'll be fine. It isn't what _you_ would say. You're playing a character, remember, so think of it as what _she_ would say."

"So, what would my character say?"

"How should I know? Do I look like a chick to you?"

"Birkhoff, I'm serious! If I fail this assignment—"

"_Re-lax_, Nikki. I think you'll make an excellent honey trap."

"I—what?" she faltered, confused.

"Like I said, you'll be fine. You've got a big heart, a big ego, and long legs that reach all the way down to Mississippi."

Nikita stepped away from the punching bag. "No, seriously, what's a honey trap?"

"You are," said Birkhoff simply.

"Me?"

"Sure. Or at least, you and your…_admirable qualities…_" His eyes read innocently enough, but they lingered for a moment too long on her chest and Nikita smacked him smartly upside the head.

"That is completely degrading!_"_ scolded Nikita, ignoring his yelp of surprise. "It's like feminism never even happened. Who's to say that a woman can't attract a man by any means other than her sexual prowess?"

"And what do _you_ think men find interesting in a woman?" Birkhoff groused, rubbing his head with a slight frown.

"Intellect," answered Nikita coolly, lifting her chin a defiant fraction of an inch. "A real man appreciates a woman who can think for herself. A woman can also be independent, confident, ambitious, successful—"

Birkhoff pretended to jerk awake with an unconvincing snore. "What? What was that? I'm sorry, I think I just lost interest in what you were saying—"

_Whaaam._

This time, Nikita sunk her boxing glove into the fleshy depths of Birkhoff's stomach and he doubled over, wheezing.

"I'm joking!" he gasped, stumbling back to catch his breath. "I'm _joking_. Come on, Nikki, don't be mad. Embrace your sensuality! Think of it like a gift. Think of it like _God's _gift to women."

Nikita raised a skeptic's eyebrow. "I thought you always claimed _you _were God's gift to women."

"Exactly!" he beamed, seemingly pleased she'd caught on so quickly. "Exactly. It's like you and I are two different—but same—items at a Christmas gift exchange. Try to think of it like _I_ am the—"

"The Christmas fruitcake that nobody wants but still gets passed around anyway?"

"—the breakfast in bed, and _you _are the well-placed mistletoe! Nikita, you're the catalyst. Without you, there _is _no breakfast in bed!"

"Gee, Birkhoff, I haven't blushed this hard since the last guy compared me to a parasitic plant. You know, you really should retell this charming little anecdote of yours more often—you'd be a real hit with the ladies at your next cocktail party."

But Birkhoff waggled his finger at her, not to be dissuaded. "All right, then. You'll prove it to you."

It took an exorbitant amount of self-control for Nikita to bite back a laugh as she raised her fists to the ceiling in mock exasperation. "Birkhoff! I don't _want_ to prove it to you!"

"C'mon! Just indulge me here! With all the punches I've taken and the ass I've hauled for you these past two months, you owe me at least that much. Here, come on: flirt with me. Act like you're trying to pick me up."

This time, Nikita really did throw back her head in laughter. "Nice try, Nerd, but I'm not going to try and ask you out," she chuckled, using her teeth to rip off one of her gloves. "You've got to be what, two years younger than me?"

"All right, so I'm no Brad, but you're not exactly an Angelina either. I'm just trying to get you to appreciate the power of your sex appeal. So, come on! Flirt with me! Pretend like I'm one of those guys at the gym and hit on me already, damn it!"

It was the comedy of sights, watching Birkhoff plant his legs apart and cross his arms expectantly across his chest. Clamping her lips together seemed to stifle the laughter well enough, but it wasn't until she caught herself rubbing the back of her neck that Nikita realized she was actually a little embarrassed and—dare she say it?—self conscious.

Despite her better judgment, Nikita gave in. "Fine!" she relented at last.

Suddenly very aware of just how tall and gangly she really was, Nikita batted her long eyelashes and slid a slender hand slowly up Birkhoff's arm.

"You look familiar," she affected in coaxing tones, lowering her voice an octave. "Have we met before? Oh! My! And what is this?" she gasped innocently, her fingers resting on his rather prominent biceps. "It looks like we need to get _you_ to a doctor quick, because these pythons are _sick!_"

Once, while in the middle of an oral presentation on the Sistine Chapel, Nikita had been unlucky enough to pass a loud and indisputably noticeable stream of gas in front of her entire sixth grade classroom. Rather than break into a humiliating uproar of laughter, the entire classroom had been silent. Terrifyingly silent. Not one student uttered a peep, not one student choked on a giggle.

Interestingly enough, that silence had been more unbearable than the laughter because at least with the laughter, Nikita would have known she was being mocked.

Birkhoff's silence was like being trapped in that sixth grade classroom all over again.

The tortured grimace twisting his face made it clear that the only thing physically stopping him from stuffing his fist in his mouth was his kind regard for her feelings.

"Wow."

"What?" asked Nikita tepidly, fearing the worst.

"Nothing."

"No, really," she prompted insistently. "What?"

"Just…don't ever say—or do—that ever again."

"Was I really that pathetic?"

"Let's just say you don't seem nearly as hot a babe as you used to be."

An unintelligible growl spilled from her lips, halfway between frustration and embarrassment. "Well, then, tell me what I'm doing wrong."

"I think the easier route would be to start with what you _aren't _doing wrong," choked Birkhoff with a strangled sort of laugh.

"Birkhoff! I'm being activated in two days! I'm serious!"

"Well," he began diplomatically, keeping a wary eye on her fists, "for one thing, I think you're blinking wrong."

"I'm _blinking _wrong?"

"Just shut up for a second and hear me out—"

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard."

Birkhoff shot her a double take. "_I_ sound ridiculous? You're the one with the lame-ass pickup lines, but suddenly _I'm _the one who's an idiot?"

"How the hell does one _blink_ wrong?"

"That whole business with you batting your eyelashes like a freaking butterfly. Don't do that. It looks like you've gone thirty-one flavors of crazy."

Moisture prickled the corners of her eyes the harder she tried not to blink.

"Oh," jumped in Birkhoff as if on sudden inspiration. "When the guy's talking to you, lick the front of your teeth every so often. He'll love that."

It was all Nikita could do not to recoil. "Why?"

"Can I level with you?"

"Please."

"Just…" Birkhoff seemed to hesitate, his eyes darting once more to her fists. "Just remember that even though I say this as a man, yes, I also say this firstly and most importantly as your friend who respects you to the upmost—"

"Birkhoff—"

"When a man is talking with you, all he's thinking about is how to get you into bed. All he's imagining is what you look like _in _bed, naked. So, if a guy stares at your mouth while you're talking, he's thinking about what it'll feel like to kiss you. If a woman licks her teeth when she knows I'm looking, it's an open invitation for sex."

Nikita stared. "Apart from being unequivocally insulting and misogynistic, that's not even remotely true."

"Just give it a try."

"Come on, Birkhoff, this is a waste of time—"

"You want to pass your assignment or not? Channel your inner Megan Fox and give it a try."

"My inner who?"

"_Just try it_," sighed Birkhoff exasperatedly, running the back of his hand wearily across his eyes. "Honestly, Nikki, why do I feel like I'm Henry Higgins teaching _Miss Congeniality_ how to glide?"

Nikita reminded herself that it was only for the sake of their friendship that she even bothered to indulge him. "How's this?" she asked, pouting her full lips into a simpering smirk.

"All right, all right, there you go! Not bad! Now, try the tongue."

"…am I doing it?"

"A little more."

"Now?"

"More. Think sex. Lots of sex."

"…like this?"

"Well, no, not like—damn, Nikki, don't _drool _on yourself. What's wrong with you? That's disgusting."

"Now?"

"Uh…"

"How do I look?"

"Like you're French kissing a fish."

Nikita threw her boxing gloves to the ground, making Birkhoff flinch as she advanced upon him with the sudden wrath of a lioness. "Laugh all you want, Birkhoff, but you want to know what I'm good at?"

"Not really—"

"Weaponry. Knives. Guns. I'll bet you I can even break the Division long distance shooting record in my first year of eligibility. That's what I'm good at. What I'm _not_ good at is this: behaving like a mindless, sex-craved blow-up doll. So, do me a favor and cut me some slack."

Birkhoff raised both his hands in surrender—the proverbial white flag. "You're absolutely right. I'm sorry. You asked for my help; I was just trying to do what you asked."

"I asked for your advice, not for the sick little fantasies that play around in your head."

Clearly, Nikita had wounded him this time.

"Fine," Birkhoff said a little more brusquely than usual. "You don't appreciate originality? Fine! You want clichés, I'll give you clichés! You want me to tell you to wear a low-cut dress that hugs your curves in all the right places? Fine! Wear a low-cut dress that hugs your curves in all the right places! Bat your damn eyelashes! Act like everything you see turns you on! When somebody walks into a room that you're not supposed to be in, go ahead and make out as a diversion!"

"Except that even I know that last play's a horrible and overused cliché," cut in Nikita.

"Come on, Nikki, don't you watch the movies? Don't you read the fan forums? People eat that shit up left and right! That's why it works so well. It's almost as bad as the zipper cliché."

Nikita lifted a perfectly arched eyebrow. "I'll bite. What's the zipper cliché?"

Birkhoff stared at her with an expression of mingled surprise and incredulity. "You're telling me you've never used the zipper cliché?"

"Apparently not," she shrugged, indifferent.

"Every woman at one point or another is guilty of the zipper cliché, or some form of it. It's like one of Hollywood's go-to techniques for seduction. Strangely enough, guys like me fall for it every time."

"What's the—"

"It's when a man walks in on a half-dressed woman and all of a sudden it's, 'Could you help zip me up?' or 'Can you help me put this necklace on?'" Birkhoff snorted out loud. "As if you can't put on your own damn necklace! It's just another tease, like, 'You can look at the menu, but you can't order off the specials!'Oh, happy day, here comes Mr. Giggles," he added sarcastically, looking over her shoulder.

The sound of footsteps from behind made Nikita whirl just in time to see Michael crossing the elevated hallway overhead.

"Quick!" hissed Birkhoff, prodding her in the back. "Practice on Michael!"

"What?" she yelped, her screech drawing Michael's attention.

"The art of seduction isn't exactly a class offered at Division, Nikita," maintained Birkhoff sternly, nudging her forward. "You need real-time practice. We've all seen the goo-goo eyes you give him; now's your chance to do something about it."

"I'm not about to—"

"_Michael!_" called Birkhoff loudly, quickly retreating away.

Which left Nikita in a rather precarious position, standing awkwardly by herself in the middle of the room, flushing redder than an overripe tomato.

Michael backtracked to the railing, looking down at her with an expression of polite surprise. "Nikita?" His eyes traveled briefly to Birkhoff whistling to himself in a corner of the room, then back to where she stood shifting her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. "What are you doing? It's after hours."

Nikita shrugged in a desperate play of feigned nonchalance. "Nothing. Rehearsing."

Michael raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Rehearsing?"

"Practicing," she corrected herself hastily. "Uh, sparring. Training. You know, for my upcoming assignment."

"Right," said Michael slowly, looking curiously between her and Birkhoff. "Well, I wouldn't worry too much about your assignment. You'll be fine. Try and get some sleep; you don't look well."

The best that Nikita could muster in reply was a sort of strained grimace. But as Michael turned away, she heard Birkhoff's insistent cough from behind and Nikita hurriedly spoke up. "Michael?"

"What is it, Nikita?"

The saliva dried from her mouth, her stomach twisted in knots, and once again she was that tall and gangly girl from her sixth grade classroom. She might as well have been wearing braces and a headgear for all the confidence she exhibited now.

In her panicked state of mind, Nikita blurted out the first words that tumbled from her mouth. "Could you…help zip me up, please?" she stammered, indicating her hooded zip-up sweatshirt.

Somewhere from behind, Nikita heard a dull smack as Birkhoff clapped his palm to his forehead.

Michael blinked twice. "Get some sleep, Nikita," he said finally, his face carefully and unusually blank, "…seriously."

"Y-yes, sir," she stammered, offering Michael a silly wave of farewell as he retreated down the hallway.

An unexpected snort from behind startled her and Nikita whirled to see Birkhoff with a fist over his mouth, his shoulders rocking with silent laughter. "_Oh, man…"_

"Shut up," Nikita warned him waspishly, her cheeks flaming, but Birkhoff bellowed out a hearty roar of laughter.

"Oh, man," he gasped, tears leaking from his eyes, "that was _so _worth it. Nikki, I'm begging you: you _have _to do that again. I need to see it one more time…replay it over in my mind on rainy days…"

"I panicked, okay? That was the best I could come up with!"

"Normally, you see, I'd be surprised, but after the way you 'picked me up' earlier, nothing you say or do really surprises me anymore."

"Okay, so I'm not cut out for this seduction thing just yet!" she groused resignedly, scooping her boxing gloves from the ground.

She initially shrugged off Birkhoff's reassuring arm around her shoulder, but he was insistent. "Don't worry, babe, you're still the resident hottie in this place," he assured her good-naturedly, walking with her from the room. "Just don't, you know, talk so much yet until you've had the proper instruction."

"What do I do for my assignment on Thursday, then?"

"Your guy's a Hungarian nationalist, you say. Does he speak any English at all?"

An intriguing question. Why hadn't she thought about that before? "No," Nikita realized slowly, a relieved sort of grin lighting up her face. "No, I don't believe he does."

"Then you got nothing to worry about, kid."

A few more strides until they arrived at the door to Nikita's private quarters, and Birkhoff gave her arm one last reassuring squeeze before releasing her from his embrace.

Nikita stepped inside and held the door open with her foot, waving him goodbye with a shy smile. But as he backed away toward his own living quarters, she called out to him one last time. "Hey, Nerd."

"Hmm?"

"You still think I got what it takes to be a honey trap?"

Birkhoff smiled a rare smile. "Yes, Nikita. I think you will make an excellent honey trap someday."

**THE END**


End file.
